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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26218747">She Often Spoke of You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Gray/pseuds/Flora_Gray'>Flora_Gray</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst But Make it Funny, F/M, Gen, Lot 665, otp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:42:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,769</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26218747</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Gray/pseuds/Flora_Gray</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Life continues on for Raoul and his wife, but, stalked by a figure from their past, will he ever find peace? Short, poignant, and either deeply stupid or deadly serious - it all depends on a matter of perspective. :)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Daae/???, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>She Often Spoke of You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>She Often Spoke of You</strong> </span>
</p><p>Three days.</p><p>They still hadn't talked about what had happened.</p><p>That first night, just after they'd escaped from the monster's lair, not a word passed between them.</p><p>The next day, Christine cried non-stop from the moment she woke until, aided by a little brandy, she finally succumbed to sleep. In the time between, Raoul held her close, cradled against his chest, soothing and shushing as if she were a child who'd woken from a nightmare.</p><p>The following day, she awoke calm, clear-eyed. Raoul offered to listen, without judgement, to anything she wanted — <em>needed</em> — to say, but each time she opened her mouth to speak, the tears would return.</p><p>On this, the third day — finally, finally — just as the sun dipped below the lush green hills of Chagny, setting the sky aflame, and just as Raoul had begun to lose hope — finally, <em>finally — </em>she was ready.</p><p>Raoul held her trembling hand, stroking its pale skin with fingertips still bruised and raw from clawing at the noose.</p><p>And he listened.</p><p>She began at the start. The night the monster first took her, dragged her to his lair, likely kicking and screaming — she hadn't said so, but, he assumed, she wouldn't have wanted to wound him with that detail — as Raoul, unaware and unable to save her, had gone to fetch his hat.</p><p>His stupid hat.</p><p>"Every time I close my eyes, I'm there again. Beyond the mirror, in that world of darkness."</p><p>Her eyes were round and glassy. Her voice a breathless whisper.</p><p>"The black. The cold. The swirling, swallowing mist. No way to tell day from night. No way to escape."</p><p>Her eyes drifted, gazing upon a scene only she could see.</p><p>"There was no angel — only a man. In a boat. Then, there was another mirror — only it <em>wasn't</em>…"</p><p>She paused.</p><p>"And then everything went black."</p><p>Her eyes closed.</p><p>"Jolted awake, plunged back into stark reality by those dark, horrible chords. Beaten out of the organ, like a punishment. And then—"</p><p>Raoul squeezed her hand.</p><p>"Then..." Her face crumpled, tears collecting on her lashes. She shook her head. "Oh, Raoul — I can't, I just can't!"</p><p>She buried her face against his shoulder, and he held her tight.</p><p>"It's all right, my love." He let her tears soak through the fine white linen of his shirt, scalding the skin beneath. "Whenever you need, I'm here to listen."</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mache musical box, </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>in the shape of a barrel-organ.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Two more long days. Now she was ready to continue.</p><p>They sat on a garden bench beneath a fat silver moon, her eyes downcast and full of pain. Pain that both broke Raoul's heart and filled him with cold, silent rage.</p><p>"I woke to that brutal, punishing music. But then..." She spoke so very quietly.</p><p>"Then there was a tinkle of notes. A music box. The melody was sweet, but sad. And—" Her voice was stronger now, more steady. "It was shaped like a barrel organ." She raised her eyes to his. "I think— I think it was made of papier mache. On top was a figure — a monkey, dressed in Persian robes — playing a pair of cymbals. It was lined in velvet, beautiful velvet. I'd never seen anything quite like it." She faltered, bit her lip.</p><p>Raoul took her hands.</p><p>"Go on."</p><p>"Well," her small, delicate shoulders lifted in a shrug, "I mean, that's it, I suppose: monkey, cymbals, velvet, papier mache. That pretty much covers it."</p><p>For the first time in weeks, a smile curved her lips. "It really was the most clever music box I've ever seen."</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Six months of wedded bliss.</p><p>Though the heat of the late summer night was suffocating, they couldn't bear to untangle their limbs, instead sleeping intertwined, like two branches of a tree that had grown together, inextricable.</p><p>His name, spoken from the darkness.</p><p>"Raoul?"</p><p>Her voice was soft, hesitant — clearly hiding hurt. "I can't sleep. I— I keep thinking about leaving him all alone, down in that God-forsaken place."</p><p>Raoul went still, a breath half-caught in his throat.</p><p>"You mean…" He swallowed. "<em>Him?</em>"</p><p>"Oh — no. The monkey."</p><p>Her fingers clutched at his arm. "Oh god, do you think the mob got to it? No, no— I can't even imagine it!"</p><p>Silence fell between them, save for her shallow, shuddering breaths.</p><p>"Sometimes—" Her cheek pressed into his chest, and above his thudding heart he could feel the warm trickle of tears. "Sometimes, as I'm falling asleep...I think I can still hear it playing."</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Showing here!</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>May I start at twenty francs?</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Five years of a beautiful life together.</p><p>One sweet child — a son — and another on the way.</p><p>It was a particularly beautiful Christmas. Snow blanketed the city of Paris, with a high, clear sun turning the white to glittering gold.</p><p>The boy's fingers ripped at the package in a frenzy, bits of paper and ribbon flying.</p><p>"<em>Maman, </em>look! Toy soldiers!"</p><p>"Let me see, my darling." Christine pulled the boy into her lap. She was never lovelier than when she smiled down at their son, and Raoul's own smile shone back with heart-bursting pride.</p><p>"Aren't these charming! Are they lead? Oh, did I ever mention?" She turned to Raoul.</p><p>His shoulders tensed.</p><p>"The figurine on top of the music box — you know, the monkey — it was made of lead. At least, I think it was lead." She paused, her forehead creased in thought. "I suppose it could have been iron — I'm not too familiar with the different types of metals. But if I had to guess, I'd say lead."</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Oh come, come, ladies and gentlemen, fifteen, then! </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Fifteen I am bid, thank you very much.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Twelve years, gone so fast.</p><p>Three children — now two.</p><p>It wasn't fair, but life rarely was.</p><p>Christine sat beside the casket. She'd been there all night, in silent vigil. Her eyes were swollen, raw with grief. But her mouth was set in resignation.</p><p>She brushed her fingertips over the velvet lining, just above the child's sweet, sleeping face.</p><p>"So soft. So beautiful. Is there anything more beautiful than velvet?" Her voice hitched. Normally so lovely, it was dry and gritty, strained from days of horrible, howling wails. "This may be the most beautiful velvet I've ever seen. Although—"</p><p>Raoul's eyes went wide, quietly incredulous.</p><p>"The velvet lining on that music box is a close second."</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Fifteen, then?</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Fifteen I am bid.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Twenty-eight years, many more good than bad.</p><p>Two children, now grown.</p><p>The dinner was a special occasion, a celebration of their daughter's engagement to a handsome, confident young man — not a member of nobility, but self-made, with a keen instinct for business.</p><p>Christine had been touched gently by the years. Very little gray threaded her hair, and the fine lines around her eyes spoke of a life full of smiles and laughter. Sitting next to her future son-in-law, she still sparkled just as she did when she'd stood on stage, lit by the bright gas footlights. Raoul's heart thumped and skittered as she flashed him a smile.</p><p>"Tell me more about your travels." She turned to their daughter's fiance, ever the charming conversationalist. "I'm sure your business must have taken you to some very interesting places."</p><p>"Oh, to be sure! Africa, East Asia..." the young man responded enthusiastically. "But I think my favorite must be Persia."</p><p>"Persia! You know, I have quite an interest in Persia."</p><p>Raoul's knuckles went white around his fish fork.</p><p>"I wonder, did you ever come across any shops which sold music boxes?"</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Twenty from you sir, thank you very much. </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Twenty-five on my right, thank you, Madame. Twenty-five I am bid.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Thirty four years, and counting.</p><p>Four precious grandchildren. Two of them, the youngest, treated to an afternoon at the Paris zoo.</p><p>The sun was warm and welcoming. Christine's hair was white now, her hands cool and soft, but the fingers closed upon Raoul's hand with gentle strength.</p><p>The little girl, a miniature of Christine in her younger days, with dark ringlets bouncing as she skipped ahead, shouts back with delight. "Look, <em>Grandmaman</em>! Monkeys!"</p><p>Raoul felt his teeth groan as he clenched his jaw.</p><p>"Monkeys? Really! You know what that reminds me of?"</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Thirty? Thirty. </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Selling at thirty francs, then.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Thirty nine years.</p><p>So many, yet not enough. Never enough.</p><p>A cold, dark day. Very fitting.</p><p>Christine looked so beautiful, even then, with her skin so pale and her eyes so dim.</p><p>Her voice was not even a whisper.</p><p>"Raoul...come closer, my love...my heart."</p><p>The tears stung his unshaven cheeks.</p><p>"I have loved you more than anything." Her smile is warm, but fading.</p><p>His hand squeezes hers, but it's a small fragile thing, and he fears it may break.</p><p>"Except…"</p><p>Raoul's hand goes slack.</p><p>"Except maybe that music box."</p><p>She closes her eyes for the last time</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Sold, for thirty francs, to the Vicomte de Chagny. </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Thank you, sir.</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Thirty francs.</p><p>Such an insignificant sum for such a significant thing.</p><p>The nurse wheels him out into the harsh midday light. He pulls his blanket around him, fighting the chill in the autumn air.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>A collector's piece indeed... </strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>It really was quite clever.</p><p>The design is unique. The velvet is rich and unfaded. The figure has been executed with intricate, loving detail.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>every detail exactly as she said…</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>It comes to life in his hands. The tinkling notes are sweet, but sad.</p><p>He gestures, and the nurse stops his chair in front of the building. Atop the carved marble, a golden angel looms over him in silent judgment.</p><p>Raoul nods for the nurse to leave him.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>She often spoke of you, my friend...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Six francs, three to each man.</p><p>Who knew salvation could be purchased so cheaply?</p><p>A man steps forward, clothed in rough cotton clothing stained with grease, and takes the music box from Raoul's waiting hands. He places it on the street, just behind a large tire.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Your velvet lining, and your figurine of lead...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p>Five-hundred forty kilos.</p><p>That should do the trick.</p><p>The tire begins to roll backward, slowly — so wonderfully, satisfyingly slowly — and with snapping and creaking and a desperate tinkling of sweet-sad notes, the music box is no more.</p><p>The tire stops — a single cymbal rolls out from behind, spinning like a whirlpool until it tips over with a final, helpless clink.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> <strong>Will you still play...</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>When all the rest of us are dead?</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>...</strong> </em>
</p><p><em>No— </em>thinks Raoul.</p><p>
  <em>You will not.</em>
</p><p>And he smiles.</p>
<hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>lol</p><p>Seriously, though. That line! "She often spoke of you, my friend." Did she, really? In what context? What was there to say?</p><p>And now we know.</p><p>Christine x Monkey Music Box: OTP — and CANON.</p><p>Wait…</p><p>She was definitely talking about the music box...right?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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